death counts
by Aliathe
Summary: Every few months, without any real sort of prior agreement, a hitman and a stuntman end up at the same bar and count off their fatal injuries incurred so far. It's like a game, a competition, except there's no prize worth it and the winner's the one who loses in the end. [one-shot]


**Summary:**

 _Every few months, without any real sort of prior agreement, a hitman and a stuntman end up at the same bar and count off their fatal injuries incurred so far. It's like a game, a competition, except there's no prize worth it and the winner's the one who loses in the end. [drabble]_

 **Disclaimer:**

 _I don't own KHR! or the cover picture._

* * *

It's a Tuesday.

A weekday.

Night, of course, since the owner of the bar is of the firm opinion that no proper bar opens in daylight.

Weekday nights are always slow and languorous, drifting unhurriedly through the artfully obscuring dim lights and drapes.

One of those classic 'just-shady-enough-to-still-be-suave' joints, one of those with the long rows of glittering glass bottles, the scattered piles of gleaming glossy baubles, the thoroughly scarred and worn wooden furniture.

One of those with staff that can keep their mouths shut, provided you didn't bring 'business' along and tipped well.

(Nobody likes a stingy tipper, especially a stingy tipper that they know in no uncertain terms makes about ten times their salary in a week.)

The food is decent, the waiters and waitresses watch everything with a hawkish gaze and a determined obliviousness, and the barkeep has an array of knives that are just a bit too sharp resting on the shelves by her right knee, easily within reach, a bonus of ducking for cover tacked on.

This particular barkeep in this particular bar is pleasant enough, if a bit grim at times, and her finesse with the 'extra cutlery' she has on hand is why the establishment is peaceful and relatively neutral 90% of the time.

(The other 10% is anarchy upheld by the raging fights among customers, with the incentive of the losing parties forced to either foot the bill or be banned for life.)

On that slow weekday (Tuesday) night, a man in a black fedora hat slides in.

So does, half-an-hour later, a man in a purple visored helmet, slipping sideways into shadows.

.

.

"Late," is his abrupt, brusque greeting.

Undeterred by his seat-neighbor's snappishness, the helmeted man orders the first drink he sees on the menu, promptly dropping his gaze down to the polished honey-golden countertop afterwards, ignoring the barkeep now collecting the ingredients needed.

His breathing sounds strange and vaguely alien through the ventilation slits of the helmet, which covers his head entirely, all the way down to the juncture of skull and neck.

"No set time," he replies instead, easily, relaxing somewhat as he traces whorls and curls on the grained wood. "Or place, really."

Reluctant to admit wrongdoing or weakness as usual, his companion huffs in audible dismissal of his explanation, implying it's just an excuse.

Used to that as well, the helmeted man overlooks the reaction, paying the correct amount of lira for the drink, which he begins to absently stir in contemplation.

"Deep thoughts?" the fedora-wearing man baits, languidly savoring his own cup of wine, while sparing a disdainful glance at the odd combination of juices that the other man chose. "Unusual for you."

"Not what we're here for," he suddenly deflects aggressively, sharply turning his head to meet the steady gaze of ashes for the first time that meeting. "Just get on with it, alright?"

The helmeted man deflates almost as soon as he finishes his uncommonly bold stance, returning listlessly to his untouched drink.

Carefully, he jabbed a toothpick into one of the floating pieces of sodden pale yellow stuff, identifying it warily as pineapple chunks marinated and soaked in copious amounts of very strong alcohol.

After a moment of extra thought, during which he reasoned that alcohol poisoning wouldn't be a valid concern for him, he fished out the other colorful chunks, recognizing more pineapple and possibly pear with some sort of citrus fruit sadistically added to the already acidic, corrosive mixture.

"Hmph," the fedora-wearing man huffs again, the eye-rolling action almost tangible. "Very well. Day 1, bullet-shot. Malicious."

A perfectly oval white blemish is shown near his collarbone.

"Day 3, snapped neck. Malicious," his companion candidly follows up, drawing a finger to outline the thin scar across his unclothed neck.

"Day 6, knife lodged in artery. Malicious," he recites, brushing against the sensitive vein.

"Day 5, severe concussion and internal bleeding. Accidental," the other adds, gesturing around his helmet.

"Accidental already?" he smirks.

"Stunts are no walk in the park, y'know. Unless they pay you to walk through a very dangerous park," he jests, keeping in good humor.

"I should think that being a hitman is a harder job."

The barkeep very studiously avoids their seating section after overhearing the first reeled off injury, suddenly mysteriously stricken deaf and blind and perhaps even dumb.

"Yes, well, keeping yourself alive through death-defying acts that go against the laws of nature seems harder than making sure others aren't alive," he says, unable to drive out the trace of magma rage edging his words.

"Oh? And _you're_ just such a _grand_ example of keeping oneself alive, aren't you?" is sniped back smoothly, coldly.

"... shut up. Day 11, strangled with razor wire. Malicious," he moves on, because they'd be there all night leaping at each others' throats otherwise.

The helmeted man knows how to pick his battles, for all the good that that does him, as many battles are foisted and forced upon, not voluntarily chosen to accept.

"Day 14, senbon needles on a cluster of nerves, close to disabling the spine. Malicious."

Clinical, detached, trace a circle to point out the nerves mentioned.

"Day 14, open wound stretching across vital organs. Malicious."

A slight wince, phantom remembrance, causes his hand to twitch spasmodically for a brief second when pressing against his stomach.

"Day 26, bullet-shot. Malicious."

Short, curt, winding down.

"Day 22, poison. Malicious. Day 24, skull fracture. Accidental. Day 27, skull fracture. Malicious," he finishes, tapping first his chest, then his helmet.

Twice for the latter.

"I'm done."

"No accidents again?"

"When have I ever?" he asks rhetorically, arrogant, but it is an arrogance that can be safely backed up with skill and talent and utter confidence in himself.

"I'm sure I can think of few," he dryly answers anyway, truly positive that such a thing was possible if he spent a few days sifting through any memories of their past meetings.

"My tally is 4," the fedora-wearing man shrugs simply, 'not hearing' the helmeted man's previous statement.

"... not bad for a cycle. I win at 7. Again."

"How many wins is that, now?"

"Too many."

Acquiescing to that short, bitter remark, the fedora-wearing man offers a silent toast.

They clink glasses gently, something sugary and sour wafting from the sloshing, lurid cocktail, nothing but the smell of fermented grapes from the daintily swirling wine.

"I'll never understand how you drink that," the helmeted man begins conversationally. "Smells like rotting fruit and tastes no better."

"Because you have no appreciation of culture," his monthly meet-up informs him blandly.

It is now the helmeted man's turn to roll his eyes, something he does without shame, although the effect is ruined by his still-covered face.

Downing the rest of his drink like a shot, he stands up and rolls back his shoulders in a rippling motion, cracking his neck from side to side loudly.

"Maybe I'll die before the next cycle," Skull de Mort, the strongest Cloud-user alive, the 'invincible' civilian target that couldn't be killed, the one cursed with heavily internalized Flames that spammed healthy cells like crazy and yet prevents him from externalizing his Flames to any useful extent, offers rather flaccidly, not sounding very convinced himself.

Renato Sinclair (Reborn), the strongest Sun-user alive, the 'invincible' hitman target that couldn't be killed, the one cursed with constantly rejuvenating Flames that could mass-attack an injury and bring him back from the brink of death, raises a single imperious eyebrow.

"And maybe Mammon will suddenly decide to donate all of their fortune to a charity for orphaned children in need," he drawls, flicking a 'goodbye' gesture of sorts with the hand not resting under his tilted face.

"Yeah, yeah. Bastard," Skull grumbles, a woolly strand of inexplicable fondness threaded into his tone.

Tipping his hat, Reborn answers with the second part of their customary routine, "Lackey."

They share a nod of acknowledgement, so flicker-fast that even not-blinking wouldn't have worked.

Then the helmeted man pivots and leaves, dramatically silhouetted by the evening darkness.

Leaving the fedora-wearing man to sip his wine in peace.

.

.

Next day, at the 'Great 7' conference, Reborn kicks around Skull and makes ridiculous demands, accented by derogatory remarks about his general uselessness.

Next day, after the 'Great 7' conference, Skull is shot by another aspiring assassin hoping to make a quick buck off the bounty given for a known acquaintance of several powerful Flame-users.

Next day, after being shot, he awakens in a dingy alley with his face on the floor and a new tender scab.

"Day 1," he muses thoughtfully, wandering towards his current apartment. "Bullet-shot, malicious. Wonder if I'll win again?"

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 ** _-Please review.-_**


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